Bitten to Death (20 page)

“A couple of blocks.”

“Good. Dave, as soon as you see them—”

“I know the drill.”

“Fine. Then you can repeat it back to me.”

He blew an impatient breath through his teeth. But he said, “I pull out. Stay ahead of them. Lead them to the fortress. Kastro. Whatever the hell these people call that massive ruin on the hill. Where we move into the second stage of our dastardly plan. Do you need to know every little detail of that too, or have you committed it to memory?”

“I’m clear.”

While we waited, I decided to check my messages. As I’d suspected, another one had come from Cole.

He was towing a guy with hair so blond I had to strain to be sure he had eyebrows. Not a happy camper, but cooperating with the dog’s wishes so far.

Dave started the minibus and rolled down the window. He said, “Go ahead, Trayton.”

“I am.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Quit talking to him,” I said. “He’s doing something.” Exactly what, I couldn’t be sure. The Were’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his throat tightening as if he was emitting noises. But if anything escaped his lips and flew out the window, it certainly didn’t register in my ears. Ziel felt different. He leaped forward, yanking at the leash so hard he made his handler stumble.

Dave took his cue and pulled into traffic. We had, maybe, a mile to drive to get to the Byzantine fortress used for the defense of Patras from the sixth century right up to World War II. That meant a big commitment on the parts of Trayton and Ziel. But loyalty seemed bred into their bones.

Dave drove up steep streets lined with flower-bedecked pastry shops and small cafés whose raven-haired owners were just opening the umbrellas on their outdoor tables, to a spot where the sun-bleached ramparts and towers of the Kastro rose above the well-tended lawns, shrubs, and palms that surrounded it. Traffic was thick enough that our pace didn’t annoy anyone. And within fifteen minutes we were parking in the lot provided for tourists and local history buffs.

I handed my twin one of the aerosol cans, took the other for myself, and opened the door. As Trayton began to follow me out, I held up my hand to stop him. “There’s no room in this plan for a recovering werewolf. You’ve done your part. Now stay in here where it’s relatively safe. If you get hurt again there’s no way I’ll be able to explain before Krios bites my head off.” Literally.
Ouch. What a nasty way to go.

Though he looked disappointed, Trayton had the grace to sink back into his spot. “I understand.”

Dave and I paused by the car to spray each other.

“Ugh! This stuff stinks!” I declared. “It’s like how those African buffalo must smell. You know, the ones on
National Geographic
specials that have poop all over their butts and spend half their day snorting bugs out their noses?”

“What the hell did Bergman put
in
this stuff?” Dave wondered.

“We can ask, but you know he’ll just shrug. No way is he going to give up his favorite chocolate cake recipe, much less the ingredients to his unleash-the-mongrel spray.”

“Point taken.”

We walked around the Kastro, feeling it loom over our shoulders like a sleeping dragon as we sought the approach Ziel and his walker would take as pedestrians. There it was. A steep concrete stair with a stone railing on one side and a series of fancy cement banisters on the other looked intimidating enough that older folks might decide to take the route Dave and I had chosen instead. A couple of fiftyish, black-mustached men wearing flat gray caps loitered near the bottom, breakfasting from Styrofoam cups before beginning their day’s work. Beyond them the buildings and streets stretched out in a sensible grid right to the gulf, where we could see a ferry chugging off toward Corfu.

Dave began taking pictures of me, with the Kastro providing a stellar background, which was why I’d dressed up in the first place. To an outsider we looked like a photographer and a model, trying to get in some quality shots before we lost the light. We’d thought we’d have to wait until much later for this. Drop Trayton off and then stake out the hotel until Ziel decided he needed to pee. At which point we’d place ourselves downwind of his route and let him come running. This method was so much better though. It made me wonder if taking similar risks with my heart might pay off in the same immensely satisfying way.

Less than five minutes later the dog arrived, still leading Samos’s man so strongly that if the guy had been on Rollerblades he wouldn’t have had to put any effort into his progress at all. As they began to mount the steps, we moved our poses to the same area, working ourselves into position well before they reached the top.

My back was to the steps, the parasol leaning prettily on my shoulder, so Dave gave me a play-by-play. “I think Ziel has smelled us,” he whispered. “Blondie’s having a hard time controlling him. The dog’s trying to take the steps ten at a time. Can you hear the guy yelling at him?”

“Yeah. What language is that?”

“Sounds like German. They’re almost to the top. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

I closed the umbrella, pulling it tight until the catch that readied the dart inside its tip clicked. When I turned, Blondie was concentrating fully on controlling his muscle-bound bundle of inertia, who seemed eager to greet me.

Ziel began barking. Not the typical deep-throated
ruff
of a big dog. No, this sounded like Chewbacca at Han Solo’s bachelor party. “Woo, woo, where’s the strippers? I don’t wanna miss all the fun. Woo, woo!”

I aimed the parasol at Blondie and fired, triggering the tranquilizer I’d loaded it with earlier by depressing a small button at the base of its handle. Dave and I turned and moved swiftly back toward the parking lot. According to Bergman, once he was released, Ziel would follow us. Judging by the dog’s current behavior, I figured he hadn’t exaggerated. Still, I took a quick look over my shoulder.

Blondie had sunk to his knees. Though he tried to the last to hold on to the dog, Ziel badly wanted to go bye-bye. One last lunge and he’d broken free. He raced toward us like a big, furry missile.

“Dave, he’s not slowing down!”

Dave glanced back. “He doesn’t look like he wants to eat us.” He snapped another picture of the fortress.

“But that’s not let’s-play-fetch speed either.”

“You could tackle him.”
Click. Click
.

“That dog weighs more than
I
do! Now quit trying to set up money shots and help me think, dammit!”

“Fine. You stand behind me and I’ll try to catch him.”

I didn’t argue. Dave turned around, muttering about how he’d never get a picture on the cover of
Time
magazine without some damn cooperation. For once, I let him rant. Because, despite the fact that Ziel’s tail was wagging like the starting flag at the Milwaukee Mile, I could see every one of his teeth. And they looked
sharp
. I ran behind Dave, bracing him the best I could by pressing my shoulder against his back. He shoved his forearm out, as if he expected Ziel to pull a police dog leap and latch on just like they do on TV. Not this canine. He dodged to Dave’s left, came around his flank, and jumped on me.

“Oh my God, would you get
down!
” I yelled, trying to peel back his enormous paws. They pressed deep into my right shoulder. Though the jacket provided some protection, I still expected them to leave bloody imprints, both from their sheer weight and the fact that it felt like his nails had never been trimmed.

I looked down into his face and, I swear, he was sticking that wide pink tongue to one side to make it easier for him to laugh. I said, “You need a Mentos. Ugh, I’m not kidding. The second I’m free, we’re brushing your teeth. Now get down, you monster! Dave, why are you
laughing
!”

“He’s ha-ha-humping you! Now I know what was in Bergman’s spray cans! No, no, stand still, I’ve got to get a shot of this!”

“Aw, for the love of—get
off
, you perve!” I shoved a hand into Ziel’s chest and lowered him to all fours before Dave could record my humiliation for all history. “Do I need to remind you we’re working?” I snarled as Dave worked the zoom on his camera.

“Hold that bitchy face. It’s classic Jaz,” he replied.

“Would you please grab the leash?” I demanded. “We need to get the hell out of here!”

“Fine, fine.” He let the electronics dangle and took hold of Ziel’s lead, allowing us to hustle to the parking lot. Well, we tried. “Goddammit, Dave, can you at least keep this mutt from nose-goosing me every four steps? I can’t think with my underwear stuck up my crack. I know it’s a weakness, but it’s just one of those things.” As Dave practically doubled over with laughter, I kept myself from boxing his ears by saying, “I don’t get why he’s not trying to get up close and personal with you. You sprayed too.”

“I used the stuff in the other can. Maybe it’s got different chemicals. Here, we’re at the minibus, you can call Bergman and ask.”

“Before or after I kill him?” More howling from my brother, who at least had the presence of mind to pull the dog off me and shove him in the vehicle for Trayton to hold.

Okay, Jaz
, I told myself as I belted in and grabbed my phone out of the bag,
don’t yell. Remember how Vayl gets results? He talks in a reasonable tone. And people listen. And then
—I pressed the last button of Bergman’s number and yelled, “Fuck your protocols, Bergman! Answer this phone right the hell now!”

“Jasmine?” Dammit, his voice wasn’t even quivering. It would’ve been nice if he was still the shaky-quaky I’d roomed with in college. But he’d grown a backbone recently and was a lot harder to intimidate as a result. Still, I tried.

“What the hell, Miles? This dog—no, this miniature
grizzly
—thinks I’m his one and only!”

“Well, I didn’t know if he was neutered or not. So I put sex pheromones to attract an unneutered animal in one can, and the chemicals necessary to get a neutered animal’s attention in the other.”

“Well, I’m covered with love potion and he’s about to yank the arms off the guy who’s trying to hold on to him. What do I do now?”

“Are you wearing a jacket?”

He’d know I typically did in order to hide the gun he’d made for me. “Yeah.”

“Maybe if you lost it,” he suggested.

Which meant I’d also have to take off my shoulder holster. At this point I was willing to make the sacrifice if it meant getting that cold, wet nose out of my personals. I slipped the jacket off and threw it toward the back of the bus. Only I was so frustrated I hefted it farther than I meant to. It flew through the gap between Vayl’s tent and the side of the bus. Trayton wisely let go of Ziel, which meant he wasn’t injured when the dog tore after it. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to say the same for my boss.

“Vayl, brace yourself!” I cried.

“Why would, oof,
ow!
” Vayl responded as Ziel galloped over his tent, trampling it and various parts of the vampire’s anatomy in his effort to reach his new love. Finally he snagged the jacket at the back of the bus, where . . . well, I just couldn’t watch. It had once been a piece of my clothing. Now it was a dog’s sex toy.

Pete, you have no idea what sacrifices I make for this job, do you?

“Gross,” I said. I began to turn around. Then something about Trayton’s body language caught my eye. “Dude? Are you okay?” His pupils had doubled in size and he kept licking his lips as he looked at me, unblinking, his focus becoming a little creepy as it continued without even a glance in another direction.

He spoke in a hoarse, barely controlled monotone. “The spray seems to have an effect on werewolves too.”

This day just keeps getting better and better
. “Dave! Get us to the cemetery. Quick!” I pulled my .38 just as Trayton made a move on me. “Don’t even,” I warned him.

“But you smell so—”

“It’s not
me
, ya sex-crazed wolfman! It’s spray-on fake-out juice. Dude, tell me you’re smart enough to know the difference!”

Finally, a reaction, even if it was just a couple of blinks. “Of course. But you, that is, I . . .” He sat back, his nose twitching, a look of confusion warring with the one of desire that now sat on his face.

“Plus, Phoebe told me you guys mate for life. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

I said, “Well, I’m not that girl. I’ll bet you can smell that too, if you just let yourself.”

“Can I have your dress when you’re done with it?”

“NO!”

He sat all the way back as I muttered, “Dave, where’s that can of your stuff? I’m drenching myself in it.” From then on, the only sounds that accompanied us to the cemetery were the
whish
of aerosol covering me in yet more pheromones and my own mumbling. Which went something like, “I don’t give a crap if this outfit is tax deductible, it still cost me seventy-five bucks, and that was on sale! Bergman, this stuff had better not stain. And thanks a helluva lot for explaining what was going to happen. Next time I take you on a mission, how ’bout I leave out the part where you have to give a six-hundred-pound man a sponge bath? I smell so disgusting I don’t even think they’d let me onto an episode of
Dirty Jobs
. And I’ve seen that guy clean up pig shit! I swear to God I’m about to bust a couple of canines right upside the head!”